


Sex Ed 101

by thegrendel



Category: A Brother's Price - Wen Spencer
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Anal Sex, Coming of Age, Dildos, Erectile Dysfunction Drugs, F/M, Femdom, Gay Sex, Intrigue, Kidnapping, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Multi, Multiple Partners, Prostitution, Rape, Real Life, Restraints, Science Fiction, Secrets, Strong Female Characters, Wealth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 09:10:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14931384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrendel/pseuds/thegrendel
Summary: It's the fall of 1962, both on an alternate Earth very much like ours,and in the world of Wen Spencer'sA Brother's Price.And those worlds are about to intersect.The story fills in some of the details hinted at in the original novel.* * *A catastrophic event blasts an inexperienced, socially awkward 15-year-old boyfrom an Earth similar to ours into the world of Wen Spencer'sA Brother's Price.A world where men are outnumbered by women is any horny teenageboy's fantasy, right? Ah, but the devil is in the details.* * *This is a complete novelette-length prequel to Wen Spencer's fine book.





	1. It Was a Blast

**Author's Note:**

> While remaining true to Spencer's premise, the tone of the story is rather dark,  
> as is fitting for an exploration of the ugly underside of a social order.  
> If you are looking for a light-hearted Regency romance, look elsewhere.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grass is always greener ...

The first 16 days of the month had sloppy grease-penciled X's in their  
squares, but my eyes were pinned to the picture of the busty blonde in a  
skimpy bikini. October of 1962 was turning out to be a nasty-bad month  
for me, never mind that I had just celebrated my 15th birthday. Some  
celebration. Hurray for me, I'm popping zits on my face and I've got a  
couple of dark hairs sprouting on my chin. And, oh yes, Dr. Xavier gave  
the standard sex ed lecture at school the other day and I all of a sudden  
discovered that I'm at least part queer, or worse. Happy birthday to me.

The annoying whine of the electric clipper brought me back to hard, cold,  
steely reality. Yeah, I was getting my fall haircut and the damn barber  
was being none too gentle about it. "Hold still, kid, dammit!" Nice guy,  
the barber. At least he had good taste in pin-ups.

Part queer. Maybe even completely queer. Just because I'd had a couple of  
jack off parties with Barney. Well, maybe we did a little more than jack  
off, but it was just fooling around, you know. Adolescent sex play. It  
just happens that I sort of _like_ girls. Yeah. It's just that I'm  
too damn scared to talk to them. They giggle when I get close. I can't  
stand that.

* * *

Jagged streaks of flame in the heavens and eruptions of hellfire on earth.  
Columns of greasy smoke rising from blast craters marked the impact  
points of the deadly projectiles. The serried ranks of ballistae were  
firing in echelon, tossing volleys of shrieking, flaming naphthe-wrapped  
missiles into the wreckage of the defensive works. Few would live to tell  
the tale of the upcoming battle. Selena's Harmonium -- the Danaer-fire  
flinging demon -- was aptly named.

Senior Ordinate Karsa surveyed the smoldering wreckage of the enemy camp  
from her mount. Amidst the rubble and the burned corpses she hardened  
her heart against the cries of the badly wounded survivors. She had no  
tears to spare for them, nor medical treatment or sympathy. These were  
minions of the Imperatrix, the beast who had grasped the suffering land  
in her mailed fist for far too many years.

"Form up! Cavalry forward. Crossbows at ready. Infantry divisions assume  
phalanx formation. Advance!"

Double quickstep, then breaking into a run as the enemy line broke and  
the retreat turned into a rout. "Take no prisoners!"

The underground bunker was cleverly concealed, but an explosion had  
twisted the door off the cast iron hinges. "Must have stored blastpowder.  
Nasty stuff. Ancient custom forbids its use in war, but the hordes of  
the Beast will stop at nothing to save the dying regime."

"Carry on, sublieutenant. Take a squad and clean out the tunnels below.  
Could be there's something worth saving down there."

"Ho, what have we here? Booty! They kept their menfolk here."

"Starved and likely diseased, as well. Just the sort of thing you'd  
expect of imperial line soldiers. Fetch tools to cut the chains off the  
poor devils."

"What will happen to 'em, Ord?"

"Cleaned up, fed, and then, depending, either parceled out to our own  
troops as comfort boys, or sold off to the cribs. Assuming they don't  
have the pox, of course."

"And if they do?"

"Either a painless death, or ransomed back to the enemy, depending on how  
tender-hearted the Commandant is feeling. Or how badly we need the money."

"Damned shame that would be, considering how desperate the troops are  
for a little romp after all they've been through."

"A bit horny yourself, are you, Corporal? Discipline, always discipline."

"Discipline, my ass, Ord. You're just as bad as I am. Remember that  
stray joyboy we found wandering around last month? You were the first  
to sample the wares."

"Shut up and do your duty. Dis-missed!"

* * *

" ... auto accident. Secretary of Defense Robert MacNamara ... taken by  
ambulance ... serious, but stable condition."

I wasn't much paying attention to the radio 'cause the damned barber  
was butchering my hair. I wanted it long, with straight-cut bangs just  
over the eyebrows in the "sosh" style all the cool boys in my class were  
wearing. He didn't know what I was talking about and just kept right  
on mowing my head with the damned electric clipper. It was hopeless,  
and I had to get out of here.

As if I needed any other worries, there was this damned world crisis  
going on. Soviet missiles in Cuba and stony-faced General Curtis LeMay  
threatening to bomb Castro's socialist paradise back to the stone age.  
And with Bob MacNamara in the hospital there was no one who could  
restrain the generals. RFK and Symington were rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth  
warmongers. And what was Russia going to do? What was JFK going to do?  
Invade? Did this mean war? Fifteen years old and I'd probably never  
live to experience what sex with a girl was like. Never live to grow  
up and hold down a job and marry and have kids of my own. Never get to  
read all those science fiction novels I'd never had time for because of  
damned homework. Never fill the empty slots in my coin album. Never become  
a man and have my own home, and learn to make my way in the world. The  
grownups were going to play at nuclear frigging war and blow everything  
to smithereens, me included. F*ck this sh*t!

" ... Your radio should be tuned to 640 or 1240 for instructions. This  
is a Conelrad radio alert." There was the familiar high-pitched hum, then a few  
seconds of silence. "We now resume our regular broadcast."

I'd had enough of haircut hell. "That's plenty good enough, Mr. Barbieri.  
I seem to be late for an appointment."

"Sure enough, kid. That'll be five bucks for the trim. Plus tip."

* * *

That joyboy. Karsa had taken her joy from him all right. It had satisfied  
her cravings for a short while, but she couldn't help wondering if there  
could be more to it than just quick bang-bang sex. She envied the families  
who had a husband of their own, a husband that the sisters could have and  
hold for an entire night at a time. Sure, each sister had to wait her  
turn, but the waiting was endurable when you knew that your turn would  
come, that you were assured of time with your Man at least once a month,  
and possibly even more. The anticipation was exquisite.

What had become of the kid? After she had gotten her fill of him, used him  
up, actually, he was passed down to the troops. A couple of days of that  
would burn out any man. Hopped up on crib drugs, lashed down on a crude  
plank bed, and mounted, in turn, by every trooper who wanted to scratch  
her itch -- that would soon turn any man alive into a gibbering, mindless  
idiot, fit only for the cribs. And that was where he probably ended up.  
A crib out here in the ass end of the borderlands would pay 100 Gold Zlot  
even for a mindless idiot, as long as that important appendage between his  
legs was reasonably intact, that is, not worn down to a nub. Such was,  
in fact, known to happen. As the saying goes, horny troopers lay waste  
and pillage.

A more interesting question was where the joyboy had come from. Every  
once in a while a gibberish-spouting barbarian turned up, a boy or  
man who didn't understand any known language and who was dressed  
in outlandish clothes. These mysterious strangers, these freakish  
wanderers seemingly popped up out of nowhere. They were usually weak  
and disoriented, effortlessly captured. Easy prey for troopers and  
crib harvesters. And for families desperate for a husband. Sure,  
they were virile enough, until they wore out, but they were weak, oh,  
so weak. Even a girl barely past menarche could easily overpower them.  
Where did they come from? Some scholars imagined that they were from  
another world, and had strayed through the Veil of the Goddess. Perhaps it  
was a world where men were plentiful, one man for every two women. Where  
a woman could dream of having a man all to herself. Unimaginable wealth!

* * *

Boy, oh boy, another joyous day. Outside, it was raining and I'd have to  
hop out of the damned bed if I wanted to get some breakfast before walking  
to the damned school. And what was that they were saying on the damned  
radio? An ultimatum? Damn, a Soviet sub had been depth-charged off the  
Cuban coast and there had been some kind of a shootout between an American  
destroyer and the Russian sailors. Scores dead and wounded. Khrushchev was  
foaming at the mouth, and threatening to retaliate if something or other wasn't done.  
I didn't catch a whole lot of it. Had to run so I wouldn't be late for  
class. Didn't sound real good, though.

What was that? There were voices coming from the windows all the way  
up and down the block. Talking, a lot of loud talk. Radios and TVs were  
blaring news announcers' voices. Excited voices. Something about a civil  
defense alert. I stopped to listen. What was this? President Kennedy and  
the congressional leaders had left Washington by helicopter. The Joint  
Chiefs of Staff were issuing communiques. What? State of war? Important  
bulletin to follow shortly. What? What?

I caught the number 63 transit bus that would take me by Northeast High.  
The riders were listening to transistor radios. A few women were crying.  
Whoops, almost missed my stop. Ran in through the front door of the  
school, ten minutes late. Snuck into the door of English class. Miss  
Carson didn't even look up; she was sitting at her desk with her head  
in her hands. Was she crying? The other students were standing around  
in clusters, whispering.

Miss Carson was my favorite teacher. She was young, maybe in her  
mid-twenties, and a real looker. She always had a smile for her students,  
and I liked to imagine a special smile for me. When she read Shakespeare  
aloud I had to try hard not to stare at her boobs. When she turned  
around to write on the blackboard I had to try hard not to stare at her  
ass. Today, it didn't look like she was going to read Shakespeare or  
write on the blackboard.

There was a burst of static from the PA speaker overhead. Then  
the principal's voice came through. He was yelling. "There has been  
a civil defense alert issued. We are under evacuation orders. All  
students will line up in the hall in orderly fashion, and await further  
instructions." This was not good.

We were standing in long lines in the hall. Every few minutes a line  
of students would file out through the street entrance, led by one or  
two teachers. Soon it should be our turn. I heard shrill high-pitched  
civil defense sirens in the distance. Miss Carson had turned around  
and she was staring at me. Her eyes were huge. She was scared, and she  
couldn't hide it. Then she opened her arms and pulled me to her in a  
hug. She was shaking and there were tears running down her face. From  
the windows there was a blinding flash, and that was the last thing  
I remembered before ...

 

 _"Dorit iss ayer! Drunter. Bayim fad."_ (There he is! Down there.  
By the side of the road.)

It was raining hard. I was down on hands and knees in a puddle of  
water, and my clothes were soaked and muddy. My belly hurt. I was so  
weak I could hardly move. My body felt heavy. Then I heard the shouts  
from up the hill. Hill? Where the hell was I? What was I doing here? How  
did I get here? Where the hell was Miss Carson?

I heard hoofbeats and the riders were upon me. An impossibly strong  
arm grabbed me under the armpits and brutally snatched me up. I was  
on horseback sitting in front of the rider and an arm pinioned me back  
against him like a band of steel. Him? It felt like I was being squashed  
back against firm breasts. Felt like female breasts. Boobs! What the  
hell? A super-strong Amazon. _"Halt shtill!"_ She bellowed in my  
ear and squeezed me harder. I could barely breathe. There were other  
riders galloping alongside. Other Amazons, or what?

It was still raining. We were at some kind of crude campsite. Missy  
Amazon had dismounted me from the horse with a two-armed lift. I was in no  
condition to resist. Resist? She could squash me like a bug. I was still  
feeling weak, but even at full strength I'd have been no match for her.

She brought me a cup of water. A dented tin cup with a soldered-on handle,  
something like I'd seen in the Frontier Days Museum. I finally got a good look  
at her face. I couldn't believe it.

Miss Carson! She looked like Miss Carson, all right, but she wasn't.  
Her face was leaner and harder and she was dressed in some sort of  
buckskin leather outfit. Like Annie Oakley, I guess. Looked like there  
was some kind of insignia over her chest and sleeve -- military? Same  
face and hair as Miss Carson. Same boobs and ass, even. But, she sure  
didn't talk like Miss Carson, and she didn't seem to know me.

_"Vat bist dee gennent?"_

Some kind of foreign gibberish. Wait! It sounded a bit like German.  
I had taken Beginning German last year. I think she was asking me for  
my name.

"Lonnie. Lonnie Marlowe," I mouthed.

 _"Dee bist speelyung,"_ she said. She began laughing. Laughing!

 _Speelyung?_ What did that mean? Playing boy?

_"Dee bist mayn."_

Now that I understood. She was telling me that I belonged to her. I was  
property. Her property.

 

Karsa laughed aloud. The Goddess had gifted her with another joyboy.  
This one was more comely than the last, right pretty enough after she  
had thoroughly scrubbed him off in the tin washtub (he had struggled,  
but to no avail). Somehow, he looked familiar, but of course, she had no  
recollection of ever having met his like. Perhaps she had once swived a  
cousin of his. When she had dried him off (Hold still, damn you!) she'd  
had a sudden urge to slam him to the ground and take him right then and  
there. But, no, there would be time for that. World enough and time enough  
(marvellously!). The anticipation was as nice as the act. And there would  
be many acts.

"Who are you? What will you do with me?"

He was mouthing some sort of gibberish. Then he resorted to sign language  
when she failed to understand. Smart fellow, this boy.

She pointed to herself. _"Karsa. Ick bin dahn magistra."_ I am your  
teacher (master? mistress?). _"Du tust wie ick sag."_ You will do  
as I say. Or else.

He seemed to understand when she repeated herself, slowly.

_"Was willst du tun mit mir?"_

Now he was babbling something she could almost understand. A dialect of  
the _Heimsprach_?

 _"Allis tun. Diesh bastaigen un im mahn heilich fotz nimmen."_ I will  
mount you and take you into my Sacred Purse. She made her meaning unmistakably clear  
with sign language. The boy was blushing scarlet. Finally, he understood  
his fate. A fate worse than death.

What the bloody hell was going on here? What was going to happen to  
me? If I understood correctly, I was a captive. Property. Owned by  
this soldier-dame, this dragon lady. And she would compel me to have  
sex with her. _Rape_ me, even? And why was I so damned weak? Why was  
it so hard to move? Why did I feel so heavy? Aiee, if I had fallen  
through a rabbit hole and ended up in another world, maybe the gravity  
was stronger. That would account for it. But how the hell I did I get  
to this damned place, whatever it was? Well, that monstrous flash of  
light, and then -- the Bomb -- if the Bomb had gone off, the Big Bang  
itself, if the Cuban Missile Crisis had spun out of control, well then  
... Could it have thrown me into another dimension, into an alternate  
Earth, a primitive Earth dominated by powerful and aggressive women  
on horseback who spoke an archaic dialect of German ... It was pure  
science fiction -- a pulp writer's wet dream -- but it made about as  
much sense as anything else. This whole thing was a screwed-up, warped  
nightmare. If I had been nuked, I should be dead, totally defunct  
and vaporized. Yet, here I was, thinking and feeling, feeling like  
screaming. This was crazy. Completely, impossibly screwball.

Yeah, I had dreamed of having sex with a girl. Been too scared of the real  
thing, though, was nowhere near ready for it. And here it was, staring me  
right in the face. Yep, none other than her hairy crotch. I was flat on my  
back, unable to move, helpless, and she had parked her snatch right on top  
of my face. I was supposed to kiss and lick said snatch, if I understood  
correctly. Or else. Or else she'd force me to do it anyhow. Well, okay, I  
could think of worse things happening to me. Maybe. And, well, it did sort  
of taste interesting. Smelled a bit pungent, but wait, she'd reached back  
and grabbed my -- and wait a minute. I was getting hard. Real hard. She  
had wedged my head between her pubes and I could hardly breathe. She  
smelled funky down there. Tasted sweaty, kind of strong. Lick harder,  
I think she said. She was groaning and her thighs were bouncing up and  
down on my chest. What the bloody hell was she doing to me?

Then she was abruptly off me. Then on me again ... Crouching over me.  
_She was sitting on me_! My **** was trapped deep inside her! It felt  
weird. It felt sort of good. Too intense! It was doing something strange  
to me. I felt pressure inside me building up. I was like a hot volcano  
starting to erupt. I couldn't stand it. I erupted into her. So this what  
they called f*cking? I had been taken against my will. It was a messy  
and sweaty affair, but think I had liked it, some of it at least. Still,  
I felt _used_. I had been raped! A song kept running through my head.  
_"Is that all there is? ... If that's all there is, let's keep  
dancing."_

I was wrapped in her arms, and she was crooning something. Her tongue was  
in my ear. And then, ow! She was laying flat on top of me, pressing me  
into the boards underneath, and biting my nipples and reaching around  
down under to squeeze my ass cheeks. Hard. Now she was sticking a finger  
into me! Agh! Now she flipped around and took me into her mouth (Please,  
don't bite!), and I was hard again.

And again. I was used up. All I wanted to do was sleep, but she was  
insatiable. She was pulling something out of a battered wooden chest.  
It was a plaster or poultice of some kind and she wrapped it tight  
around my left arm. _"Dus is ahn crippnkrot."_ It is a crib drug.  
(A crib?) _"Nokhamal."_ One more time. And I was hard again.

This time I couldn't get release, no matter how how many times or how  
hard I thrust into her. My organ stayed rigid and I was overheated and  
drenched with sweat. She kept urging me on, kept grunting and taking her  
pleasure from me, squeezing me dry. Kept biting my neck and digging her  
nails into my back. I was imprisoned within her muscular, pumping thighs  
in an agony of arousal. I was an object of lust and this was torture.  
I begged for mercy, and blacked out.

I must have slept for hours. She was gone. I tried to roll over and  
get up. Couldn't! My wrists and ankles were tied down to the planks of  
the bed. Dammit! I had to take a piss and I'd be damned if I'd do it  
all over myself. Wait. The bonds weren't all that tight. Karsa had been  
considerate enough not to cut off the circulation in my hands and feet.  
Nice of her. Let's see if I can twist my wrists and get the hands loose.  
Lost some skin, but got the left one free. Now for the right --

Loud footsteps! She came storming into the room. She was at my side,  
cuffing me once, twice, three times across the face. That hurt! _"Na,  
klayner, det iss rekt nichtgit."_ Badly done, little  
one. _"Dokh, makt nix. Dieh bist siess, ober bist och a luxus ick  
kennicht mech lasten."_ Does not matter now. Thou art sweet but,  
alas, a luxury I cannot permit myself. _"Miz diek fakofen."_ I must  
sell thee.

Sell me? What the hell did that mean? I guess I would find out soon enough.

 

My hands and legs had been bound and I was lying in the bottom of a  
rickety four-wheeled cart, something like the buckboards I used to  
see in TV westerns. It was a hard, rough ride, bouncing around on the  
splintery wood-slat floor, and I collected a fresh bruise for every  
single rut and bump. I twisted sideways and managed to turn over onto  
my back to watch the dawn paint the sky a deep blood-red. Red sky at  
morning, sailor take warning. It was way too late to take warning.

Much later, the cart stopped. I was battered and thirsty and had to  
pee. My arms were grasped and I was none too gently pulled onto my feet.  
I managed to whimper that I badly need something to drink. "Leave ... him  
... be," a voice commanded. English! The language spoken was close to the  
English I knew and loved. Standing before me, looking down at me was a  
woman dressed in an expensively tailored military-cut suit. "Follow,"  
she said. Across from me was a large building that looked like the  
main post office, back on the world I came from. It was in something  
like neo-classical style, all in marble, complete with fluted pillars  
and stonework. Incised into the block over the lintel over the gleaming  
bronze door was, "The House of the Setting Sun." Somehow, I didn't think  
it was a post office.

I was sitting on an elaborately carved hardwood chair in a small room  
in the interior of the building. Black marble walls and a candle-lit  
crystal chandelier overhead. The aristocratic woman who was apparently  
my new patroness sat facing me across a massive alabaster desk. "I am  
informed that you are pre-owned." She favored me with a cold smile. "And  
may I presume, gently used?"

"Yes, ma'am," I managed to stammer. "My only, uh, carnal experience has  
been with --"

"I am the directrix of this House. As you have seen, it is a high-class  
establishment. You shall address me as Domina. And you will not offer  
information that has not been requested. Nor will you speak out of turn.

"We take good care of our boys. If you make a good faith effort to  
learn the necessary skills and are suitably enthusiastic, you will be  
well rewarded. If you are recalcitrant, then you will be shipped out --  
sold to a lower category military crib. On this day you will rest and  
be cleansed, doctored, and fitted for attire. In the following weeks you  
will be gentled and trained to your duties. Rejoice, and be grateful  
for your good fortune."


	2. The House of the Setting Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lonnie is trained to entertain clients and he discovers that life in a high category crib is full of surprises.

"There are certain techniques for delaying climax. Not every man can learn  
them, and for those there are crib drugs. These have a number of unpleasant  
side-effects and clients pay far more for men untainted by the drugs."

I was paying attention, very close attention. I had experienced the  
unpleasant side-effects whilst being ravaged by Karsa, and I had no  
desire to repeat the experience. Losing control of my body and becoming  
a helpless puppet of the woman using me was not exactly my idea of a  
fun time.

"Mind control," the trainer was saying, "that is the key. If you can  
control your mind then control of the body necessarily follows."

She was attractive in a weird kind of way, if you ignored her hatchet  
face and the prominent scar where one breast had been removed. "The  
better to draw a bow," she had laughed. "A souvenir of my service in  
the Regent's archery corps." And speaking of scars, I had picked up  
a few myself. Of course, I'd had the HRS house brand burned into my  
left buttock, along with my identification number, but mercifully I  
had been numbed during the process. They had drugs for a lot of things,  
it turns out. No, I mean the scars on my back from being whipped after  
being caught trying to escape to the outside by squeezing between the  
bars on the window. That I hadn't been numbed for. Lesson learned.

"Now let us see if you have been paying attention," she said. "Unclothe."

I stood there in front of her, stark naked, shivering, with my hands  
modestly crossed over my privates. She laughed at me. "I am not going to  
rape you, boy. Unless you force me to. Now flat on your back, on the bed."

It was a Training Bed. I hated those damn things. I lay down, staring up  
at her, and extended my arms. She snapped on the padded manacles and leg  
restraints. This was the standard Mount Position, with arms straight out  
and legs together. All a woman needed to do was to straddle me and pump  
my life juices with that ravenous cave between her legs. Around these  
parts they named it the Sacred Purse, but in private the other boys here  
called it the Hungry Hole. It was worth a couple of lashes if we were  
caught joking about it like that.

The trainer was torturing me. She had taken my dick in her mouth while  
squeezing my balls in a painful grip with those powerful hands of hers.  
I was hard, so hard I couldn't stand it. I was whimpering from the agony  
of the need to release what was coiled up inside me. She was straddling  
me and slowly descending toward my erect member, stopping just as her  
Purse kissed the tip of it. "Please, please," I moaned. She flexed her  
knees and rose up just high enough to break contact.

"This is not for your pleasure, boy. Never forget that. Never! Your  
purpose is pleasure the lady, to service her, to give value for  
value received. She has paid for time with you, and for that time she  
_owns_ you. Never forget that. Do ... you ... understand?"

"Yes, mistress."

"Bring me to climax once, twice, thrice, and only then will I grant you  
surcease."

She turned around, facing my feet, and parked her Purse directly over my  
face. I knew what to do, and I did it. Once, twice, thrice. I don't know  
if she enjoyed it or if it was an empty exercise, but her body writhed  
and she moaned -- once, twice, thrice. Only then did she seat herself  
upon my painfully engorged member and grant me surcease.

By damn, I'm writing like _Fanny Hill_ , now. Barney and I had  
grabbed quick peeks into his older sister's copy way back when. In  
another world, way back when. And here I am frantically scrawling this  
into my journal, a few sheets of what passes for paper here. More like  
parchment, and crudely strung together in a kind of notebook. Whoops,  
someone coming. Gotta hide this thing back under the loose floorboards.

It's the trainer again. Her name is Korlies, I found out. Kind of reminds  
me of a substitute teacher I had at Northeast High, a real hardass. And  
speaking of ass, I think maybe she's after mine.

Yep, after she mounted me -- "Just a warmup to get you in the proper mood,"  
she said -- it was time for music instruction. I hate this sort of thing,  
and I used to duck music class in school most of the time. But here I  
don't have much choice. Male employees of the House are expected to  
entertain and amuse their clients in all manner of ways, not just by  
providing them with a body to mount. I had protested to Korlies that I  
had no singing voice and absolutely no talent for playing an instrument,  
and that had earned me two lashes. It turns out that I can sing and play  
because the alternative is considerably more painful.

The instrument I'm learning is sort of a lute, something like a cross  
between a Japanese samisen and a Russian balalaika. It's called a  
_laika_ , in fact, one more of those odd coincidences I've  
noticed. Not only do I run across persons who remind me of people  
I used to know in the world came from, but also certain things and  
happenings. Never mind, gotta concentrate on learning the notes and  
memorizing the words of the songs. More on the weirdness later, gotta  
play and sing now.

What do I sing? Something like, I guess, the minstrels used to do in  
the middle ages, lotsa plinking on the laika and doing simple melodies  
with the voice. _Sweet Song_ it's called. It took the threat of  
a whipping for me to miraculously find out that I could actually do a  
passable imitation. Nice girl, Korlies is. She's much too kind. Gotta  
love somebody who pampers you like that.

Oh, and I have to say something about these threads I get to wear.  
A white silk robe, yeah, real silk, with a sash I'm supposed to draw  
tight, to show off the hot contours of my bod, I guess, for the customers  
\-- sorry, clients -- to drool over. That's what it's all about here,  
keeping the clientele happy. It's been made very clear to me that my  
treatment depends on that. If I don't make money for the House, I get  
my sorry little ass booted out, which, in practical terms means getting  
sold to a lower classification military crib. And that's just one step  
above the cesspool.

 

"You are not quite ready yet," Korlies said to me, "but this is an  
offer we cannot refuse." I was finally going to entertain my  
first client. "This is a Someone from the high nobility of a neighboring  
kingdom and she has a taste for virgins. _You_ are a virgin and  
you will satisfy her every desire."

"But, I'm not -- "

The slap rattled my teeth. "You are what you are required to be. Never  
forget that. Never! You will play the part of the virgin and you will  
play it convincingly. The alternative is ... "

She didn't have to tell me what the alternative was. I'd make like  
the most virginal of virgins. "Yes, mistress, I am shy and innocent,  
and my virtue is intact. Must I submit and be ravaged? And if so, will  
I be rewarded by your luminous smile?"

"Shut your impertinent mouth. You will indeed act the part of the  
innocent, and you will find this not difficult with the aid of an  
infusion of certain simples and potions."

Oh, great, I was gonna be drugged. Well, let's get on with it.

 

It was the next morning. At least, I _think_ it was the next  
morning. I was still muzzy from the effect of the potions and I had a  
bad headache. I vaguely remember being in a strange bed, on silk sheets.  
_This isn't my bed!_ I'm gonna to be late for school. I have to  
get downstairs before mom gets mad at me. What's going on? Can't move!  
It's dark. Can't see. My wrists and ankles are tied to the bedposts.  
I'm naked! _Where the hell am I?_

The door opens slowly. Lanterns are burning brightly in the hallway.  
There is a shadow, now a dark silhouette. Someone is out there, and now  
slowly enters the room. She walks in.

A woman is standing over me looking down into my face. I can't move.  
I pull at the unyielding bonds spread-eagling me to the bed, and moan.  
Her gaze shifts to my lower body, my groin. I can't help myself,i  
I'm beginning to get hard. She stares, leers, then licks her lips.  
"My pretty little boy," she purrs.

Why am I here? Is this a bad dream? I shouldn't have sneaked downstairs  
to snack on the lasagna leftovers last night. Mom had warned me about  
midnight snacks. She'll kill me if she finds out. If only I could wake  
up out of this nightmare. Mom, I'll listen to you next time, I swear.

The woman lights the lamp beside the bed. An oil lamp? Nobody's used oil  
lamps for ages. This is a really weird kind of dream. Now she's taking off  
her clothes. Man, what boobs. Geez, she's hairy between her legs. Yeah,  
just like those dirty pictures Barney showed me that time. Boy, this is  
a really vivid kind of dream. I'll have to tell Barney about it. He'll  
laugh out loud. Hey, she's getting into the bed with me. What an  
imagination I have. What? She's kind of squatting down over me, over  
my crotch, I think, and ow, it feels like my dick just popped inside  
her. Oh, boy, she's moving up and down, bouncing off my crotch. Cripes,  
it feels like jacking off, only weirder. She's moaning. She's grabbed a  
hold of something on my head -- it's a pony tail (since when do I have a  
pony tail?) -- and she's yanking my head up toward her. She's grinding  
her mouth down on mine, biting my lips. Hard. Ow! Her tongue's in my  
mouth. She's shoving it all the way down into my throat. Wow, she's a  
sloppy kisser. She's drooling all over me. I'm still inside her and it's  
kind of starting to feel sort of good, but she's got one of my nipples in  
her mouth. She's biting. Hard. Ouch! There's a lot of pressure inside me  
and I want to come already. I need to come or I'll explode. But I can't.  
I can't come and she's pumping up and down squatting over me. She's trying  
to pump it out of me, but there's something in me that's plugged up and  
I can't come. Her pussy feels like it's tightening up around me and it's  
squeezing and clamping down. She's groaning, and now she's crying, and  
she's collapsed on top of me. "My little cuddly bear," she's whispering,  
and all sorts of other crap. It's kind of touching, but I still haven't  
come. If this is sex, the damn grown ups can have it. Boy, what a hell  
of a dream.

 

"You have earned your keep, Lonnie," Korlies was saying. I wasn't paying  
much attention. That damned headache was still with me. "It is regrettable  
that we had to use the potions. These have unavoidable side-effects. With  
practice, you shall acquire the skills and artifice to act the part of  
the shy virgin and will no longer need drugs.

"The noblewoman paid in full and left a nice bonus. An entire gold zlot.  
You must have truly plowed her furrow. Good boy. And now I will permit  
you to plow _my_ furrow. The potion interdicted your climax so the  
act would last as long as the client required. I will now grant you  
release."

Man, oh, man, I was still hard as a rock and full to bursting. "Thank  
you, mistress, please give me release." She stripped off her tunic and  
got into bed with me. I was no longer tied down, thank heavens. For a  
moment, she took me into her mouth and sucked forcefully, and that made  
me even more frantic to climax. She rolled me onto my side, then faced  
away from me with her legs pulled up toward her chest. I took the hint  
and went into her from behind. Oh, that sweet Sacred Purse! I was still  
locked up tight, though. Then, then she reached over and got something out  
from under the bed and groped back around behind me. _She was shoving  
the thing inside me, into my ass!_ It burned, hurt, then slid up  
into me. It was a big, hard plug inside me and now she was moving it in  
and out. In and out of my ass! And I was moving in and out of her. And  
in one huge eruption I was spilling my seed, into her Purse. Gallons of  
it. Emptying myself out. Thank you, thank you, blessed relief!

And then she kissed me, and left. Kissed me! Maybe she feels a teensy bit  
of affection for me, like for a well-behaved dog. She threw me a bone,  
all right. Maybe I'm starting to get cynical, but this here is a tough  
world, kids.

Yes, and I have a couple of items to add to my wooden belongings box.  
The gold zlot, a big shiny coin, but crudely stamped out, compared to  
the ones in my home world. And a little something courtesy of Korliess:  
a hookah, a finely-made water pipe along with a pouch full of little  
balls of, I guess, something like opium. To calm me down and put me to  
sleep when I need rest, she said. And to make me feel happy when I'm sad.  
I think I'll pass on that. All I need is to get hooked on dope, as if  
I didn't have enough other problems.

A few nights after that I had a real screwy client. I had been instructed  
to entertain "special requests," but this dame was definitely a bit  
over the top. She didn't want me visiting her Sacred Purse. Instead,  
she asked, no demanded, that I take her up the back passage. She wanted  
me to do her in the ass. All right, I had in my kit a special emolument  
for that, a greasy kind of lotion, actually. And it turned out to be kind  
of interesting. Her ass was tighter than any of the Sacred Purses I had  
honored with my presence. And her climax was violent and loud. So loud  
that one of the attendants was pounding on the door asking if everything  
was all right. My client banished the attendant with the threat that  
Mistress Euglena would not tolerate interruption or disrespect. Good  
and fine. Better than fine. Mistress Euglena's back passage was worth  
a half zlot bonus.

 

I finally got to meet some of the other males, the other entertainers  
here. Boys, most of them. Gylbur is only a bit older than me, but pretty  
rough looking. Lots of scars on his face, and probably elsewhere, as  
well. Born into a soldier family, and orphaned when his mothers and  
sisters were lost in some or other battle a couple of wars ago. Lived  
with his aunts, kidnapped in a husband raid, kindnapped again, ransomed,  
then sold to this house. He's missing most of his teeth, but he's popular  
with the clients because, he says, he knows everything there is to know  
about pleasuring a woman. When one of the other boys here is sick or gets  
too tired out to finish the nightly tour of duty, good old Gyl fills in  
for him. He's sort of like the "utility man" on a baseball team back in  
my old life.

Hojkan must be in his late twenties, at least. There are a few gray hairs  
in his braid, but he's lean and hard-muscled. And strong, oh, so strong.  
I once saw him kick through a solid barred door to rescue one of our  
boys who was being roughly handled by a bersek client. Korlies stays out  
of his way, and even the Domina seems a little scared of him. There's  
something weird about his eyes when he looks at you. He keeps mostly to  
himself and doesn't speak much.

Arjuna is a hard to figure. He's the oldest of the boys here, a  
middle-aged man actually. He doesn't entertain clients much, but he  
has other important duties. I'm told he helps Domina keep the books for  
the House and handle the records. Yeah, the records. The House keeps a  
detailed write-up on every encounter with a client. Every morning  
each of us boys has to write (or dictate, if they're illiterate)  
a long report on what went on with each woman we entertained -- what she  
did with us, what she wanted to do, and what she said. Especially what  
she said. Pillow talk, you know. Women get careless after they orgasm,  
and sometimes they let slip info that's worth money to the Regent's Spy  
Service. And it could be stuff that can be used for blackmail. Very  
lucrative, blackmail is. Loose lips sink ships, as they used to say  
back home.

Anyhow, back to Arjuna. From the way he talks, I don't think he much cares  
for women. Where I came from, people might have thought him a little  
queer. Or might have thought he was a lot queer. He seems to taken a  
liking to me, though. Once or twice, he's patted my ass as I passed by,  
and I don't think it was by accident. He's invited me to stop in his  
room to visit later this afternoon. Tea and biscuits, perhaps?

 

Well, it was tea and biscuits, all right. The biscuits were pretty  
good, baked them himself, he said. But, it wasn't _just_ tea  
and biscuits. We had a long talk. He does like me, I found out. More  
than like, actually. He's after my ass. _Really_ after my ass,  
it turns out. In fact, he wants to do me in the ass. It'll be like  
nothing I've ever experienced, he tells me. I told him I'd think it  
over. Seriously, I'm thinking it over. Ages ago, it seems like, I'd  
played around with a little of that stuff with my buddy, Barney. But,  
we hadn't actually done any more than a little ass play. Nothing up  
inside, really. And I am curious. Curious what it would feel like.  
Yeah, a couple of women have stuck a finger or two up into me, but that's  
not quite the same as a hard dick, I don't think. Well, we'll see.  
I'm set to visit 'Juna again tomorrow.

 

All right, it's over and done with, finally. I let him do me. Yeah,  
he fucked me in the ass. It wasn't so bad after I got past the burning  
feeling when he started to push into me. He went slow and he knew  
just what to do. Lots of the greasy stuff on his dick and carefully  
stretching me with fingers beforehand. Oh, hell, I'm lying. I actually  
started enjoying it after I got used to it. It felt like my whole body  
was filled to bursting with liquid fire, and then I lost control and it  
sort of gushed out of me. I've never come so hard in my life. I could  
get used to this sort of thing.

Does that make me queer? Who the hell cares? I still fuck women, and I've  
_got_ to fuck women if want to survive in this place. I don't  
mind it so much, and their bodies still turn me on plenty, but it's so  
_intense_ when I'm the one being fucked, having my ass used like  
a pussy. Excuse me, like a Sacred Purse. And, you know, like 'Juna  
mentioned to me, I'm gonna run into some clients who'll want to put  
on a _bone_ , a dildo we used to call it, and fuck _me_  
in the ass. So this was good practice. Time I got used to it 'cause  
I'd have to do it anyhow.

 

It's hard to keep secrets around here. Korlies asked me if 'Juna had  
gotten into my ass yet. I must have blushed, and she laughed and said he  
sooner or later fucks all the new boys. The gist of it is that this sort  
of thing is tolerated, as long as we keep it keep it under wraps. She  
said some of the clients even order a scene where a couple of the boys  
do each other in the ass. Of course, that costs extra. All special  
services cost extra. Some of them lots extra. And by the way, since I  
was broken in now, the House was expecting a client tonight that liked  
to strap on a bone and do her boy with it. Was I available? Of course,  
mistress, always ready to do my duty. Not to mention that the quarter  
zlot bonus would sweeten things.

 

Well, I got that over with. Being fucked in the ass for a solid hour is  
no day at the beach, but I managed. The woman had a tight black mask  
over her head, must have been rubber, with holes for eyes, nose and  
mouth. Made her look like Catwoman in the Batman comic books and I almost  
burst out laughing. But it got serious when she yanked me up and flipped  
me over onto my belly. Stuffed a couple of pillows under my crotch and  
right away pulled on her bone harness and got herself ready to do some  
heavy duty fuckery. She grabbed my braid and jerked my head way back.  
Rammed right into me, then up, all the way up. Good thing 'Juna had taught  
me the relaxation method or she would have torn me right open. I just sort  
of put myself into a trance and let her ride me. And, wow, what a ride.

Time passed, and some more time passed, and by the hourglass at the  
bedside it was an hour later and she was still pounding into me. Then  
she grabbed my ass cheeks, levered herself up, and slowly pulled herself  
out of me with a liquid pop that stretched my asshole. But was she done  
yet? No. She flipped me over on my back and she was on me again,  
this time straddling me. She took me into her Sacred Purse and started  
pumping me. Up and down, pumped me dry. Grabbed me by the ears and kissed  
me. Bruised my lips. Bit me on the neck. "A love bite for my sweet."  
Left a half zlot gold piece on the night table for her sweet. Wham, bam,  
thank you, sir.

 

"What's this? A doctor? Why the bloody hell do I need a doctor?"

"It is routine, my dear Lonnie. Just a check for the pox. All of our  
boys get examined monthly."

The pox? Syph? That's all I need. I get robbed of my childhood, my  
innocence, and now I've gotta worry about VD. I thought I was getting  
used to things here, and now it's turned into a friggin nightmare again.

"No sores. No fever. No symptoms. You are fine, boy. I will certify you  
as fit for duty."

What is this crap? Haven't they ever heard of penicillin? Guess not.  
Wait a minute. I know a little about that stuff. It's just bread mold,  
purified and distilled. I read up on it last year for biology class.  
Betcha I could ...

All right. Got permission to take a day trip into town, accompanied  
by a chaperone, of course. There's a glassblower there off the main  
square. I got her to do some custom work for me. A couple of large,  
heat-tempered drinking glasses without handles to use as beakers. And  
some glass tubing bent into various shapes I think I'll need. One zlot,  
sixty grosh for the lot. Let's see if I can make a still. I'm gonna try  
and distill me some bread mold.


	3. Ceremonies and Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marriage, kidnapping, and return home.

Aside from singing and plinking on the _laika_ for the  
entertainment of clients, I was being trained in the local version of  
the tea ceremony. It was an elaborate ritual and it involved pouring  
the hot beverage from a _semivar_ into glazed ceramic cups, then  
serving the client while bowing and chanting. Was I being turned into a  
geisha boy, or what? Of course, afterward I would be available to the  
client to satisfy her wants and desires, carnal and otherwise, no matter  
whether that involved mounting me or pronging me with a bone from behind.  
On rare occasions I might be required to service a family's husband in the  
sodomitic manner, whether that meant giving or receiving. Certain wealthy  
families were known to indulge their beloved husbands' particular whims  
and quirks. For such I would, of course, receive an extra large bonus.

During my free hours I had sufficient to occupy me. The penicillin  
project was coming right along, after a couple of spectacular failures.  
I had progressed beyond the point of producing smelly messes and now had  
a couple of jars of a thick paste that seemed to be reasonably efficacious  
against minor skin infections. Korlies had promised that I could try it  
on the next boy who came down with the pox. That would be the acid test.  
But there was a slight complication. Well, maybe not so slight. You see,  
my experiments had come to the attention of certain persons. Persons it  
was better to avoid the attention of.

"You have been summoned to appear before the Examining Magistrate."

"What kind of magistrate, Domina?"

The directrix was angry. Her face got red and she threw the embossed  
parchment sheet at my face. "Boy, this is a serious matter. Deadly  
serious. The Regency Secret Service has the authority to detain and  
question anyone in the realm. Those found violating security directives  
are subject to the most severe of punishments, up to and including  
summary execution."

_Uh, oh._

 

"You think we are unaware of this concoction, this Panacillum? Do you  
delude yourself that you are the first to come through the Veil with  
dangerous ideas that threaten the stability of the realm? We are well  
versed in methods for suppressing subversive notions."

The magistrate slowly pressed the tip of her saber into my Adam's apple.  
I was tied to a post and cringed as the blood trickled down the front of  
my silken blouse.

"We cannot permit this sort of foolishness to upset the existing order.  
The pox serves a purpose. It dampens the ardor of outlaw families and  
criminal gangs who would otherwise riot and go on unchecked rampages  
of husband raiding. It preserves the critically important stranglehold  
of respectable families and licensed cribs on a limited and rationed  
resource, namely men. It enables the dread hand of the Regency to  
reach into the most private sanctums of even the most powerful families  
through control of the few medicians who can treat the pox. And yet you,  
in your stupidly blissful ignorance, would imperil this. For much less  
serious offenses you would be sentenced to prolonged torture and a  
lingering, painful death."

I shuddered. Tears were rolling down my face.

"For all that, you are such a sweet boy. It would be a pity to waste  
you." She rubbed the back of her hand against my cheek and wiped away  
my tears. They she slit my bonds and sheathed the saber. She smiled.  
Her eyes were glittering. She was staring at me. She was staring hungrily  
at me. She was hungry for me!

The breath was knocked out of me when she slammed me to the floor.  
I was flat on my back, immobilized, helpless, and she was tearing off  
my clothes. Then she was on me, deftly taking me into her mouth, then  
mounting me. I was well trained and knew what to do. What I had to  
do. What she would force me to do even if I were unwilling.

This was getting kind of old. I had been slammed to the floor and raped  
too damn many times. I started struggling, for all the good it did me.  
She casually backhanded me, without interrupting pumping up and down on me.  
Wonderful. I was gonna end up with a fat lip as well as a sore cock. This  
day was turning out just hunky dory.

 

"You have a simple choice. My sisters and I lost our beloved husband to the  
plague several months back. You will therefore marry into our family,  
or ..." She drew an index finger across her throat in a universal gesture.  
I understood. I understood all too well.

And so, after considering my options, I lowered myself onto one knee and  
asked her to make me the happiest man in the world. "I regret I have no  
diamond ring to offer as a token of my affection and undying love, but --"

"Such is not the custom here, but your heart, or rather, your relevant  
body parts are in the right place. I, the Magistrate Vautrina, formally  
accept your proffer of marriage on behalf of myself and my sisters."

 

My few belongings were packed and I was ready to leave. It had been  
awfully nice of Domina to throw a farewell party. I think I had a  
good time, but my memory of it was fuzzy. I had been hopped up on the  
local equivalent of happy weed, not to mention a few of hits of crib  
drugs. All the female employees of the house had taken turns mounting and  
banging me, to give me a fond farewell, I suppose. Even Domina got off  
her high horse and took a ride. Well, for a hardass she did have a nice  
ass, anyhow. So long, House of the Setting Sun. May the sun never set  
on you.

For a change, it was a comfortable, leisurely ride. Vautrina drove the  
two-wheeled trap, holding the reins and gently clucking to the horse.  
The thing had heavy leaf springs underneath to smooth out the bumps. I sat  
in the passenger seat beside her and tried to ignore it when she reached  
over and grabbed my crotch. She made kissing sounds and obscene gestures  
when she caught me looking. Oh, I was in for a good time, I was. She had  
22 sisters, and all of them ravenously hungry for a man, I did not doubt.

It wasn't quite a mansion, but the place positively reeked of wealth.  
Secret policing must pay well around these parts. I had an entire wing of  
the house to myself. The bedroom was was luxurious, one huge wall-to-wall  
bed. I flopped down onto it and fell asleep instantly, only to be rudely  
awakened a few moments later by no less than four stark naked women  
who piled on me. Some of my future wives-to-be giving me a test drive,  
I guess. I hope I passed muster.

I was now officially married. The "ceremony" involved eradicating my  
crib brand, using a poultice of medicinal herbs (ow, that hurt!), and  
marking me with the family seal, using a hot branding iron (ow, that  
hurt even more!). Then came the official wedding night, and gosh,  
was that ever a night to remember. I collected a few bruises and lots  
of kisses. Enough kisses so my lips were puffed up and sore. As were  
my nether regions. Both sides of them. My new wives liked to ride me,  
both frontwards and backwards, sometimes both at the same time. That  
was something new for me, being taken into one wife's sacred purse while  
another wife was taking _me_ in my sacred ass with a long, thick  
bone. It was intense, too intense. And all I really wanted was to be  
left alone for a few hours. For one night's uninterrupted sleep.

There weren't any children yet. It was expected that my presence would  
remedy that sooner or later, but for the time being I was spared child  
rearing. I was even given a pass on domestic duties, food prep, clean-up  
and such. One of the prerogatives of a well-to-do family was having maids  
and servants, so that I would always be at the disposal of my wives when  
they needed servicing. And that was often. All too often. I was worn  
out. I was fed up with sex. I was fed up with women, with their demands,  
with their insatiable sacred purses. Dammit, I wanted out.

Six months later I was getting used to it. It didn't take a lot of getting  
used to. My wives were caring for me. I wasn't just a lust object to  
them, a possession. I was a person they loved and cherished. Yes,  
I dared think the forbidden thought and use the forbidden word --  
 _love_. It took a good while but I gradually realized that they  
weren't just using my body to scratch an itch, they were sharing closeness  
and comfort. Intimacy. Warmth and companionship. And I _liked_  
that feeling. I liked it a lot. I liked waking up next to a woman, or  
even better, sandwiched between two women. I liked being awakened with  
a kiss. I didn't even so much mind being mounted while I was asleep if  
it was done gently. And I no longer had to ask my wives for the obvious:  
"Please kiss me before you fuck me." They cared for me. They really did.  
I think they _loved_ me.

It was one particular incident with Vautrina that turned things around.  
Vautrina, my Senior Wife, the effective ruler of the household. I was  
feeling tired and irritable one night, and having sex -- being fucked --  
was the last thing in the world I wanted. I just needed to be left alone  
and to sleep undisturbed. I couldn't stand it and burst into tears when  
Vautrina came to mount me. She took me in her arms and tried to comfort  
me. Between sobs I managed to choke out what was bothering me. She kissed  
me, walked out, and locked the door behind her. I found out later that  
she had stood guard outside the bedroom with drawn sword to keep my other  
wives away. Had to whack a couple of them on the ass with the flat of  
the sword, she later told me. I think that was when I began to love  
her. Love, the forbidden emotion, an emotion that shouldn't even exist  
in this fucked up world.

Five years later, I couldn't imagine living any other way. Ten years  
later I was still riding waves of wedded bliss. I was a mature man now,  
getting near to middle-aged. Content. Hardly even remembering once wanting  
to be rescued. Rescued from what? Happiness? Sleeping next to a warm body  
(or two or three) every night? And being awakened by a kiss.

Forty years later I was old and tired. Worn out. But content. I had  
lost count of how many children and grandchildren I had. Even a few  
great-grandchildren. It had been a good life, but I wasn't finished  
yet. I didn't think. Rescue? I hadn't thought about rescue in decades.  
I didn't want rescue. I wanted to to be young again, so I could service  
three or four wives in one light, like I used to be able to. Now, even  
once was an effort some nights.

 

The rescue, when it came, wasn't what I expected. It certainly wasn't  
what I wanted. Military intervention to snatch me from the jaws of  
marriage and sex. Kidnapping. Ah, but those were the fortunes of war.  
The Regency had been invaded. All the nearby queendoms were embroiled  
in the Third War of Succession. And none other than my very own Karsa  
had led a raiding party right into the heart of my own land.

The first inkling of trouble was the drumbeat of hoofs outside,  
followed by screams of outrage and shots. The main door to the house  
burst open under the impact of what must have been a battering ram.  
A troop of buckskin-clad women grabbed me on the run, manhandling  
(womanhandling?) aside those few of my wives who tried to shield me.  
And then I was bundled off on the back of a horse. Again. Again tied up,  
riding in front of none other than Karsa. This was getting tiresome.

I yelled and struggled to get loose. Karsa reached around and cuffed  
me hard across the face. "Halt shtill!" Dammit, this wasn't fair. And  
I wasn't going to hold still for it this time. I managed to get my right  
arm partly free, just enough to ... pull out the kitchen knife that  
one of my wives had slipped me. What to do with it? Hell, I didn't owe  
that ironclad bitch Karsa a damn thing. I jammed the blade deep into  
her thigh. She yelped and let go of me. Good! Hope I hurt her. Fuck it  
all! I didn't care if this killed me. I deliberately rolled sideways  
off the galloping horse. Hit the ground hard. Tumbled head over heels.  
Smashed into ...

... And woke up in bed. In a white place. A hospital? Nope. It was my  
own damn room in my parents' house. And I had a splitting headache. What  
the fuck was going on? I looked down at my naked body. It wasn't the  
body of the middle-aged man I was. It looked and felt like the body of  
a teenaged boy. Flat belly and no body hair. No wide shoulders and ropy  
muscle. It was _my own body_ at age 16, when I had been blasted  
out of this world. Well, either I was dreaming or I had just awakened  
from a dream. A long, terribly detailed dream.

"Lonnie! Come on down for breakfast. You'll be late for school." Darned  
if that didn't sound like my mom's voice. I felt like crap, but I managed  
to roll out of bed. Ached all over. Bruised? Nope. Reached around back  
to feel for the scar of the family brand. Nothing there, but well, maybe  
something like a raised scab. Couldn't really tell.

Eggs, sausages, and hash browns. Even pancakes with maple syrup. What was  
the special occasion? The kitchen radio was on, and wait ... President  
Kennedy and Khrushchev had reached an agreement. Both sides were standing  
down. The missiles weren't going to fly. My parents were smiling. "Eat,  
Lonnie. The bus won't wait on you." I ate, and walked slowly out the  
door. Was all this real? I guess I'd find out. Sooner or later I'd wake  
up next to one of my wives, or the dream would start to fade and I'd be  
all schoolboy again. Right at the moment, I didn't know which I'd prefer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued.


	4. Echoes of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in the Real World turns out to be far from dull. Lonnie keeps running into people who remind him of ...

In class Miss Carson was limping. "For some odd reason I woke up with a  
stabbing pain in my thigh," she told us. _What?_ Could it have  
something to do with ... ? I couldn't bear the sight of her. Wasn't  
even tempted to stare at her boobs. I had seen every square inch of her,  
stark bare-assed naked, and I had no desire to ever see any part of her  
anatomy again.

After class, she called me aside and asked to meet me at the parking lot.  
What in the hell could _that_ be about? I didn't particularly  
want to find out, but couldn't think of a graceful way to turn her down.

"I had a strange dream, Lonnie. You were in it. It wasn't a very nice  
dream and I was doing things, embarrassing things I would _never_  
do in real life. I'm telling you this on the off chance that you had the  
same dream, or an echo thereof. I've been reading the works of Carl Jung  
and he has quite a bit to say about such matters. Please remember, Lonnie,  
that I am your teacher, and as such, it is a professional relationship  
and nothing more. Nothing more." So she said. But, I had a feeling that  
that wasn't the end of it.

As it turned out, I did run into Miss Carson again some years later,  
right after I had been booted out of college. This was before I had  
been drafted, shipped to Nam, and cashiered out for slugging a top  
sergeant, but that's a story for another time and place. Miss Carson --  
"Call me Carla" -- had tracked me down. "Hello, there, Lonnie. Remember  
me?" Unfortunately, I did. An enthusiastic hug followed, and her hands  
"accidentally" strayed down into forbidden territory. Well, there was  
nothing for it, but to check into the nearest motel. The sex was okay,  
but she had to get on top, of course, and I kept having flashbacks of  
being tied down to the bed frame and mounted. The next morning, while she  
was sleeping, I slipped out of the room, quietly shut the door behind me,  
and hitched a ride the hell out of there on Route 66. I still break into  
a cold sweat when I remember.

Not long after that, a random encounter triggered more flashbacks. I was  
in a crowded supermarket and trying to think of what I had forgotten to  
toss into the shopping cart when I looked up. It couldn't be! But, it was.  
She was staring straight at me. I had no chance to avoid her. Damn, damn,  
damn. it was _Korlies_ , or someone who could have been her twin.

"Do we know each other?"

"I would certainly hope not," I quipped. She grabbed me by the arm before  
I could walk away. Damn, her grip was strong.

"I go by Corliss Marlowe. Corliss to my friends. Armor-clad bitch to  
everyone else. Your face looks awfully familiar. I know I've seen you  
somewhere." In your dreams, baby.

"They call me Lonnie," I managed to croak. "Same last name as you.  
Maybe we're related." I hope not. That's all I need. A cousin who trained  
me to fuck in an alternate reality.

"I happen to be a trainer," she said. _Uh, oh._ "People,  
not animals, but same difference. Sexual response enhancement is my  
specialty. Maybe I can do something for you along those lines. You get  
a 10% discount for the first three sessions."

"Thank you, but I'll pass. I've already gotten free samples."

She didn't think that was funny. Even in real life she had no sense of  
humor. I wasn't particularly suprised when she snarled and brusquely  
shoved past me, somehow managing to stomp hard on my big toe in the  
process. Getting the hell away from her was well worth the pain. But,  
even that wasn't the last of it. I read about her years later. She  
had apparently been doing undercover work for a hush-hush three-letter  
government agency. According to rumor, she had gone rogue, been caught and  
shitcanned, and had narrowly escaped a long prison sentence only because  
she allegedly had the goods on someone high up in the administration. From  
what little I had seen of her in our brief encounter, I couldn't discount  
the possibility.

From time to time I'd get a letter from her. Then, years later, emails  
and _friend_ requests. I responded to none of them. I'd had enough  
of crazy, mixed up broads. Crazy, pushy, manipulative, overpowering  
broads. I was sick and tired of being pushed around, manipulated, and  
being overpowered.

 

I'd pretty much had my fill of women for a while. For a change, I tried  
veering off into the inverted domain. Nothing much about the gay lifestyle  
attracted me -- I saw it as a distorted mirror image of the mainstream,  
straight world. And I certainly didn't identify as gay. Well, maybe a  
little bit bi. But, the sex was a refreshing change from being mounted  
by women. Asses are asses, and they aren't all that much different  
from pussies, when it comes to fucking. And as for taking it in the ass  
myself, well, I'd had some experience with that in my so-called dream, and  
even a bit before. It was a quick and dirty way of syphoning off sexual  
tension -- that feeling of superheated steam needing to be released --  
and without all the hassle and expense of courting and wining and dining  
a woman. But ultimately it was superficial and unsatisfying. I missed  
the feeling of waking up next to a warm female body, of being awakened  
by her kiss, and of being welcomed into her body. I even missed the  
drama and intrigue of the straight dating world. And so I reluctantly  
reentered the world of posturing men and games-playing women once more,  
with all attendant complications and perils.

I did finally get married. Stuck it out for three long years. It was  
strange, and a bit unnerving making love to only one woman, night after  
night. And, after a few months, only some nights. And a couple of years  
into the marriage it was no nights at all. She had lost interest in sex,  
I thought. But I was sort of fond of her and stuck it out. It turned out  
she had been cheating on me. I was neither surprised nor particularly  
upset. We divorced amicably, and I wasn't even any the poorer for it  
financially, since she came from old money. We stayed friends and even  
went out to dinner on occasion. Once, she out and out tried to seduce  
me. "No thanks, honey," I said. "I have no particular desire to get on  
that particular merry-go-round again."

What finally did work for me was having three or four girlfriends, and  
sleeping with them on alternating nights. It wasn't exactly easy finding  
women who weren't possessive and didn't get into the jealousy thing.  
But, hey, between my natural charm and extensive experience I attracted  
women like horse manure attracts flies. Well, it wasn't _quite_  
that easy, but you get the idea.

The dirty business of making a living took too much of a toll on me and  
drained off too much of my creative energy. I _hated_ working  
for other people, especially _stupid_ other people, but I had  
to pay the rent and put food on the table. In my spare time, I played  
around with a few ideas for improving the cash flow. Late one night it  
dawned on me that the _crib drugs_ from that other damned world  
might have commercial potential. I jotted down all I remembered about  
the process for making them and the various plants and the animal glands  
from which they were derived. A casual aquaintance who just happened to  
be an organic chemist at a pharmaceutical firm showed some interest. By  
and by, a patent attorney at the company got involved and it turned into  
a product. A very successful product. Nowadays, erectile dysfunction  
drugs are a big deal, and it all came from my idea. Sure, I only get a  
miniscule percent of the profit as royalties, but even that comes to a  
couple of tens of millions a year. I've invested the money both wisely  
and foolishly, but somehow it kept piling up. I finally had a nest egg,  
or what we used to call _fuck you money_.

By the time the millennium came rolling around I was less interested in  
sex. It wasn't just aging. Having had so damn much sex in my life, and  
some of it involuntary, I had just plain lost interest. I wanted to be  
left the hell alone, without the demands and hassles of of girlfriends  
and relationships. And so I retreated to a desert island and became a  
hermit. Yes, I had accumulated quite a pile of shekels by that time,  
more than enough to buy a small island somewhere in the far reaches  
of the south Pacific -- don't ask where, I won't tell you. Not quite  
a desert, but mostly deserted. Only a couple of friends and business  
associates and the maintenance staff. No women. Not a one. And, with  
satellite Internet access I was as much in touch with the rest of the  
world as I wanted to be.

 

As we age, memory gradually fades. With time the conviction began to grow  
stronger in me that my sojourn in the Realm of Dominant Women was nothing  
but a dream. Oh, how I wished it was, sometimes. But, reality always  
intrudes, and sometimes in a surprising and jarring way. I couldn't  
believe it. Some or other author had written a book called _A Brother's  
Price_, and the resemblances to the world I visited, or dreamed I  
visited, are uncanny, nothing short of startling. Sure, it's all quite  
spiffied up and prettified, made to read like a Regency romance. The  
book gives only tantalizing hints of the ugliness I experienced, but  
damned if the central premise isn't the same: 10 females for every  
male, with all the resultant social consequences. The technology in the  
author's world is somewhat more advanced than I remember it, but that  
could be explained if a couple of centuries had elapsed since I'd been  
there. And, just think, the princesses could possibly, just possibly,  
be my very own descendents. A dizzying thought -- intrepid, beautiful,  
and lusty Princess Renaissance my own great-granddaughter? Ha! I can't  
imagine a sugar-coated whitebread princess descended from my seed.  
I have a wild streak of outlaw and crazy genius in me -- ask my business  
partners, hell, ask the IRS. None of the goody-goody characters in the  
novel in the least resemble me. Well, maybe a couple of the villains do.

How is it possible that this writer, this _fantasy_ writer for  
gosh sake, managed to reach through the Veil of the Goddess and find  
my world? I haven't the slightest idea. And, I don't much care. I have  
no intention of contacting said writer to compare notes or even just to  
schmooze. The whole thing doesn't interest me in the slightest any more.  
I just want to be left alone, dammit.


End file.
